


By Any Other Name

by spikesgirl58



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Napoleon attempts to find a way to tell Illya how he truly feels, Napoleon decides to let flowers do the talking for me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Any Other Name

Napoleon glared out at the rain and fumed.  “I hate this!”  He hopped back to his chair and eased himself into it.  Even with the knee brace, his leg ached and the rest of his body responded in kind.  Of course, the rain didn’t help; it crept into his body, aggravating every old injury and bringing them to life again.

“Hate what, Napoleon?”  Illya came out of the kitchen, drying a glass from their lunch.  “The rain, your injury, having me here?  What is annoying you so?”

“All of it!  I feel so damned helpless!”  He tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment and then brought his head up to glance over at his partner, looking rather domestic with a dish towel in one hand.  “I can take care of myself, Illya.  You’re a highly trained UNCLE agent, not a babysitter.”

“And that’s good, because you are far from a child, Napoleon, although you occasionally have your moments.”  He smiled at the glare Napoleon shot in his direction.   Illya set the glass down on the table and walked over to where Napoleon sat, squatting before him.  “You are in no shape to defend yourself.”

“I have my gun.”

“And you’re on pain medication.  That’s not a good combination.  It’s affecting your judgment or have you forgotten about your rather disastrous attempt at feeding yourself this morning?”

Napoleon was comfortable in a kitchen and had decided to make breakfast to prove that he was indeed capable of functioning alone, only to set a dishtowel on fire and further strain an already injured knee during the fire fighting attempt.  Illya had arrived to a smoke filled apartment, a rather well flambéed dish towel and a cursing CEA.  Thankfully, while the knee was sore, it wasn’t further damaged, but at that point, Illya had announced his intention to stay and promptly left only to return, suitcase in hand, a half hour later.

Napoleon was still smarting from the incident, something he blamed on the combination of anti inflammatory and pain meds he was on. 

Illya stood and sat beside him, staring at the far wall, his jaw working for a moment before asking,   “Is my presence here that distressing to you?”

“What?  Of course not! You’re probably the one person I can tolerate.”  He smiled ruefully.  “And who will tolerate my moods.  But why are you here…really?”

“You’re my partner; my place is by your side.”

“You make us sound married.”

Illya helped him prop his leg up on the cushion.  “I suppose, in one fashion, we are.  You’re the CEA, it is my duty to protect you, to keep you from harm, to put your safety before everything else, even my own life.  Being my partner doubles that responsibility in my eyes.  In spite of Mr. Waverly’s previous jokes, I am in no hurry to assume your position.”

“You’re a good friend, Illya.”

“Yes, I am.”  Illya smiled and placed a hand upon Napoleon’s arm, squeezing gently.  “To you.”   With that, he stood.  "My kitchen would celebrate the attention I gave yours today.”

Napoleon didn’t know what possessed him but he grabbed the hand resting on his arm and brought it up to his lips, kissing the fingers softly.  “Thank you for risking washday red hands for my sake.”

Illya’s smile was reticent, almost shy, and he pulled his hand back slowly, his eyes never leaving Napoleon’s face.  “You’re welcome, my friend.”

Napoleon shut his eyes, frowning slightly as he shifted his position ever so slightly.

“Are you in very much pain?”  The question was so soft Napoleon almost missed it.

“It’s not too bad, I’m just stiff from all this sitting around and the rain isn’t helping.  I could use a good long hot soak.”

“Cool water would be more beneficial for your knee,” Illya said.  "But perhaps in this case we can make an exception.”   He started to walk from the room and Napoleon called after him.

“Where are you going?”

“To draw you a bath,” Illya said over his shoulder.

“I can do that myself.”

“Yes, I know you can, but for now, let me be the strong one.  I’m sure very little time will pass before our roles are reversed yet again.”

 

Napoleon slowly eased himself into the water and sighed.  It was perfect, hot, but not so hot that he thought his skin would parboil.  He leaned against the sloped back of the tub and slipped down until the water was nearly up to his chin.  It was so blissfully warm and soothing.  There was a soft fragrance to the water and he finally recognized it as rosemary….

“Mmm, constancy, fidelity and loyalty…” he said absent-mindedly.

“Pardon?”

“That’s what rosemary traditionally means.  I had a lady friend who specialized in the meaning of flowers.  It is quite a complex language.”

“I see.  And to think I used it merely because it was in your medicine cabinet.” 

“But it certainly is you,” Napoleon said, moving the water with the fingers of one hand. 

Illya set two towels down on the counter and turned to leave.  “If you need anything, Napoleon, do let me know and please, don’t try to get out on your own.”

“I promise.”  He held up three fingers in a Boy Scout salute.

Illya smiled and slipped from the room.  Napoleon could hear movement from the guest bedroom, undoubtedly Illya was taking the opportunity to unpack. 

Napoleon didn’t mean to act like a petulant child, but his sense of independence was always challenged when he was injured.  Thankfully, it wasn’t often.  Not like his partner.

He’d always attributed Illya’s frequent injuries to his impatient attitude and tendency towards reaction. While Illya was probably more intelligent than he was, he was also impulsive and seldom thought through his actions.  Napoleon, on the other hand, was a plotter. He didn’t go into a situation without having first considered every possible angle and outcome.  He always tried to plan his ending first, backing into the problem. Because of that, he seemed better able to avoid injury… or at least that’s what he’d thought until now.

But something Illya said made him reconsider.  _You’re the CEA, it is my duty to protect you, to keep you from harm, to put your safety before everything else, even my own life.  Being my partner doubles that responsibility in my eyes._

It had never occurred to Napoleon that one of the reasons Illya got hurt more often was because he was putting Napoleon’s safety ahead of his own.  Worse, Napoleon didn’t know what to think about it.  He knew that Illya’s sense of duty ran deep.  That was apparent, at least to him, almost from the moment they met.  For someone to leave his country and come to a place where he was neither welcomed nor wanted spoke loudly of Illya’s commitment to UNCLE.  Even now, after years of loyal service, he was still looked upon as part of the Red Threat, destined to undermine UNCLE.  It didn’t seem to matter how many times he succeeded in thwarting the enemy or how much blood the young Slav was willing to expend.  He would always be the outsider.

Napoleon smiled and his hand went reflexively to his shoulder.  He remembered being shot in London, just as they’d boarded a double-decker bus.  The pain had been intense, but he remembered Illya’s holding him, barking orders, ready to toss aside the entire mission in an attempt to get Napoleon to a hospital.  Everything had worked out in the end, but it had been the first time Napoleon had been made aware of how deeply Illya’s sense of loyalty to him ran. And he wondered just what he’d done to deserve it.

“Illya?”  he called, and a moment later the Russian appeared in the doorway, concern furrowing his brow.

“Is something wrong, Napoleon?”

“Do you think I respect you enough?”

Illya’s lips curved into a smile and then he chuckled.  “I think you respect me as much as you can and still be you, Napoleon.”

“I’m being serious.”  Napoleon sat up, mindful not to splash water.

“As am I.  Why do you believe I feel you don’t respect me? Too much time alone with just the shower curtain to contemplate?”

“I don’t want you to think I take you for granted.”

“I never have.”

“I just… “ He sighed.  “Sorry, I think the meds are messing with my head.”

“And that’s why you need me here.  Are you ready to get out?”

“I think so.”  He started to stand and Illya was there instantly, beneath his arm, supporting.

“You’re getting all wet,” Napoleon murmured, trying not to react to the feeling of Illya’s hands, warm and sure, on his skin. 

“I also dry off easily,” Illya said, helping him climb from the tub.  Once he was certain Napoleon was stable, he turned to grab a towel, but Napoleon’s knee took that moment to buckle and with a cry, he went down.

Immediately Illya was there, twisting to end up beneath Napoleon, cushioning their impact with his body.  He gasped as the air was knocked from him, his hands automatically clutching.

“Christ, Illya, are you all right?” Napoleon tried to move, but the combination of his own pain and Illya’s grasp kept him pinned.  Illya’s head bobbed and he suddenly took a deep breath.

“Just lie still…”  Illya’s chest heaved with the effort to recapture its lost oxygen.  "Please…”

That’s when Napoleon realized that his good leg was resting between Illya’s legs, against his groin, against his not-entirely-uninterested groin.  _Huh, now that was interesting._   Napoleon thought to move his leg, but one look at Illya’s face made him banish the thought.   The man’s face was twisted, whether from pain, fear or need, Napoleon didn’t know…

He slid down and pushed up on his hands and good knee, keeping his bad leg as immobile as possible.  He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around himself as Illya managed to get up into a sitting position.

“The doctors are right, you do need to lose some weight,” Illya grumbled as he rubbed his shoulder, obviously bruised from its impact against the tile floor.

Napoleon’s response was a mere snort and to reach for his crutches.

He settled down in bed, not entirely unhappy to be lying down.  While the bath had helped, the tumble afterwards hadn’t.  He watched as Illya carefully dispensed his medicines and passed them over, along with a glass of water.

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”  Illya’s answer was too fast and Napoleon studied him for a minute, but knew he’d get nothing further from him.  He watched as Illya retreated quietly from the room and then readjusted himself upon the pillows.

 

 

He was in the shower, lathering himself up when he realized there was another pair of hands roaming over his body, the touch so sure and so utterly familiar that he just smiled at the touch.

“That feels good,” he murmured, tipping his head back.

“You feel good,” Illya whispered, his tongue licking droplets of water from Napoleon’s ear.  Napoleon shivered at the action.  Trust Illya to know all his erogenous spots. He smiled as the mouth continued, following the line of his neck, the lips bestowing butterfly soft kisses as they moved.

Napoleon wrapped a hand around Illya’s head and turned his own so that their lips met, wet and needy.  Illya groaned at the contact and Napoleon turned slightly, working his mouth, letting his tongue slide into that wonderful warmth again and again.

For several moments they stood letting the stream of water beat down upon them, too busy with their exploration of each other’s bodies to pay the water any mind.

Napoleon’s hand found Illya’s penis, a dichotomy of hard and soft, the flesh so firm, yet silk smooth to the touch.  He lathered his hand and ran it up and down from tip to base, pausing there to fondle illya’s balls, heavy in his hand.  One finger stroked Illya’s perineum, moving ever closer to that enticing ring of muscles.

The angle was wrong and Napoleon was going to do this right.  The soap slipped from his hand and he half choked out, “Illya would you mind getting that for me?”

A sly, heavy lidded smile answered him and Illya turned, bent at the waist, offering Napoleon the most tempting of targets and Napoleon couldn’t stop himself.

Making sure his penis was soaped, he positioned himself and pushed inside.  He heard Illya cry out sharp and painful, but Napoleon didn’t stop until his pubic bone rested against the soft skin of Illya’s ass.

“A little warning next time would be nice,” Illya gasped out, hand splayed against the tile wall for support.  “Just hold still for a minute.  Let me get used to you.”

“You are so tight,” Napoleon whispered, his hand seeking and finding Illya’s erection.  “I could stay buried in you forever.”  Then Illya squeezed him and Napoleon moaned, long and low, almost a keen.

Napoleon pumped Illya’s dick in time with his own desperate thrusts.  And his climax, when it came, went on forever and ever, spurting into that marvelous warmth, that welcoming body, that wonderful complexity that was his partner.  HIS partner; he lowered his mouth, biting and sucking at the damp skin until red blossomed to the surface.  HIS partner; and he climaxed again and again.

 

Napoleon sat up in bed with a sharp cry and the instant awareness that not everything was as it should be.  His pajama bottoms were warm with ejaculate and his breath was coming in short, hard gasps.

“Napoleon?”  Illya was framed in his doorway, the light from the living room glowing behind him, making his features impossible to see.  “Are you in pain?”

“No, no pain… just a dream.  I’m fine.”

“You sound… strange… are you sure?”

“I said I’m fine!”   Napoleon didn’t mean to make his voice so harsh, but it served his purpose.  Illya retreated and pulled the door shut behind him.

Napoleon remained motionless for several long moments, his pajama bottoms growing cold and sticky.  What had triggered that wet dream?  Had it been Illya’s hands so casually upon his body and Illya’s apparent comfort at having Napoleon so intimately close?  He remembered the feeling of Illya’s arousal against his knee.  Or was it something more?

Finally, he could stand the feeling no longer and sat up to struggle out of his pajamas, dropping them onto the floor.  If Illya happened to find them first, he’d come up with a plausible excuse, one that didn’t involve rogering his partner.

He strained to hear anything, but the apartment was silent.  He knew Illya was still there; he could sense his presence, practically taste it.  And with that in mind, he drifted off again.

 

Napoleon wasn’t sure what woke him, just the merest whisper of a noise and he was instantly awake and just as quickly realized that something was different.  He didn’t move, just used his senses to reach out testing the air around him much as a swimmer tests the water of his favorite swimming hole until he is assured of the water’s temperature.  But there was nothing except the dark and the distant rumbling of New York’s sleepless traffic.

He sat up and eased his sore leg out of the bed.  His bladder told him that it was more than time for a little visit to the bathroom. He got up on his feet and crutches and started to move.   All obstacles, such as rugs and other trip hazards had long since been removed from his path, but he still moved slowly.  He was nearly to the bathroom when he heard the noise again.

He paused and focused again.  Not from the living room… the guest bedroom?  The door stood ajar, probably in case Napoleon called out during the night. 

Half intrigued, half concerned, Napoleon hobbled in that direction, stopping so that he could just peer in.

What did surprise Napoleon was Illya’s very obvious erection and the way he was stroking himself.  Jacking off; he’d caught his partner in a very human and very vulnerable state.  Part of Napoleon’s sense of decorum told him to quietly retreat, to let Illya have his privacy and do what he needed to.  Yet another part froze him to the spot, his eyes momentarily glued to the hand that Illya was using to fondle himself. 

Napoleon watched Illya’s chest heave as he drew nearer to his climax, watched him rub and pinch first one nipple, then the other, his head tipped back. Illya must have decided that Napoleon was too far gone on his pain meds to hear him; otherwise, he’d have been quieter.  Now he moaned softly, his hand picking up speed and then he stiffened.

“Oh, God… Napo… Napol…”   Illya never did get his partner’s full name out as he pumped ejaculate into his fist, his other hand abusing a nipple.  The voice was tight with pain, longing, and sorrow.

And Napoleon moved, silently retreating, allowing Illya the privacy he’d denied him a moment earlier. 

 _A Goddamned voyeur, that’s all you are, Solo.  You lack the common sense God gave a sponge,_ he chastised himself as he moved back to his bed, the need to use the restroom wrung from his thoughts.  Instead, he tucked himself back into bed and feigned sleep when Illya checked upon him a few minutes later.

 _It wasn’t just loyalty Illya felt for him, it was love, unrequited, never even recognized._   Napoleon thought of how many times he’d flaunted his sexuality before Illya, challenging him for the attentions of a woman and very rarely did Illya not back down to him.  Not out of fear of being bested, Napoleon now realized, but out of… love?  So content to see Napoleon happy that he’d step aside and let Napoleon find his comfort in the arms of a woman while Illya… what?  Found his alone?

Napoleon felt a burden of guilt that he didn’t think was possible, something he’d not felt quite so clearly since his break with the church.  And apparently Illya didn’t have a clue that all these women, they were just window dressing, just a convenient and more acceptable alternative to reality - a reality that Napoleon kept hidden and in check.  UNCLE knew, there wasn’t much UNCLE didn’t know.  One of the first things you surrendered to the organization was a right to privacy; every little detail, every dirty little secret was found and examined under a microscope.  The last thing UNCLE wanted was surprises and, in a room just a few yards from him, Napoleon had found the Big Daddy of them all. One that apparently Illya had hidden so deeply, so successfully that he’d flown in under everyone’s radar.  Incredible…

Napoleon reached down over the side of his bed and found his discarded pajama bottoms on the floor.  This time he was fully conscious as he masturbated his way to a glorious climax, his mind remembering how Illya’s hands moved and arched over his body and Napoleon vowed as he cleaned himself off, before another day passed, one way or the other, Illya would know how he felt.

He lay awake for a long time, thinking how best to convey his feelings.  An outright declaration of love was too unsubtle, too crass.   And yet it couldn’t be sweet, not with Illya.  No matter what his partner was, he was not one of Napoleon’s little fluffs. It had to be firm, without deniability and completely honest.

The thought occurred to him just as he was about to succumb to sleep, an answer so straight forward, so obvious he almost laughed at the simplicity.

 

  1. He could easily move in and out of Napoleon’s radar without setting off a ‘ping.’



He got up, pulled on his robe and moved out.

 

Illya glanced at him from the table and smiled, setting the paper aside.

“You had a good night.”  Both a statement and a question.

“Yes, very… restful.”

“I could tell.”  Illya smirked and stood.  “How is your leg feeling?”

“Not too bad.  Are you okay?  After that fall and everything?”

“Fine.  I’m notoriously bouncy.”

Napoleon laughed.  “Not a word I’d ascribe to you, old friend.”  He sipped the coffee and sighed happily.  That first cup of coffee was always a welcomed event.  “What’s on the game plan for today?”

“I need to check in at the office and then I shall return.”

“Illya, you don’t need to stay here…”

“I know, just do this for my peace of mind.”

“All right, that I can manage.” 

 

Napoleon couldn’t wait for Illya to leave; he rushed through his breakfast without trying to appear in a hurry, although he could tell Illya sensed… something.  Napoleon could barely wait for the Russian’s departure before hobbling over to the phone and dialing a number he knew from memory.

His partner returned just before lunch, his hair and clothes splattered with drops of rain.  It did have the decency to hold off until he got inside though before really letting go.

They ate lunch quietly, exchanged bits of work info, just two friends sharing a meal.  When the knock came, Napoleon’s hand went automatically for a weapon that wasn’t there.  Illya held up a hand and cautiously approached the door.  A moment later he returned carrying a large bouquet of flowers.

“A gift from one of your many lady friends, Napoleon,” Illya announced as he placed the arrangement on the coffee table.  He started to walk away and Napoleon’s voice stopped him.

“Not me, Illya.  These are for you.”  He held the card out to his partner and Illya returned, frowning as he read the card.

“What?  That makes no sense.”  Illya looked at the arrangement suspiciously.  “Who would send me flowers and why?”

Napoleon snapped his flingers.  “Maybe Janine, she’s sweet on you.”

“She’s a secretary, Napoleon, she couldn’t afford these.”  Illya touched one of the roses as if it would explode on contact.  “THRUSH?”

Napoleon chuckled.  “Well, THRUSH wants you, but I don’t think badly enough to try to seduce you with flowers.”

“Seduce?”  The word came out sounding harsh and unwanted.  “What do you mean?”

“Remember what I told you yesterday during my bath?   About the language of flowers?”

“Yes.”

“Well, someone is sending you a powerful message, my friend.”

“I don’t understand.”  Illya sat down beside Napoleon, still frowning.  “These are just random flowers, picked because they happen to be in season.”

“I don’t think so.  All these flowers carry the same theme. Daisies, they speak of loyalty in love, the roses, pink and white, those mean I will love you always, but the gardenia.”

“The white smelly ones?”

“Yes, they mean that someone loves you in secret while a red tulip is an open declaration of love.  The ivy is affection and the orange blossom…whoever has it for you, partner, has it bad.  They mean literally purity in love, eternal, undying love.  Love, love, love, I think I’m detecting a theme here.”

“But who?”  Illya sat back, rubbing his jaw with his hand, his eyes squinting in concentration.  “And why?”

“Why?  You mean, why would someone send you flowers?”

“Why would anyone love me?”  The statement was made almost completely devoid of emotion, with a perplexity that made Napoleon’s heart ache.

“Why wouldn’t they?”  Napoleon’s question was gentle.  “You’re compassionate, if a bit stubborn, you’re not afraid of your emotions or your feelings and you’re easy on the eyes if you like the look, that is.” 

Illya snorted and shook his head.  “And all the work I put into being unlovable.”   He sighed and shook his head. "No, it makes no sense.”  He stood and reached for the flowers.

“What are you doing?”

  1. This is too unusual a situation to permit it to pass unchallenged.”



_You can say that again,_ Napoleon thought.  Aloud he said, “Perhaps someone just wanted to let you know what you meant to them.  Sometimes, my friend, a cigar is just a cigar.”

“And more often than not, in my world, it’s a stick of dynamite.”  Illya looked to the window where the rain was beating down unmercifully.  “I should not be long.”

He’d gotten a few steps away and Napoleon sighed.

“Illya, wait!”

Immediately, Illya was back, sitting beside him, concern clouding his features.  “What’s wrong, Napoleon?  Are you all right?”

Napoleon closed his eyes for a moment, drew upon an inner strength and then reached out, touching Illya’s face softly.

Instinctively, Illya turned into the touch and Napoleon leaned into the space between them and let his lips brush across Illya’s.  He kept his eyes open in order to gauge the reaction.

Illya had closed his and was swallowing, almost convulsively, almost as if in fear.

“I happen to be quite fond of the look,” Napoleon murmured, brushing his thumb against Illya’s skin.  He could already feel the burr of whiskers as the jaw muscles clenched beneath his fingers. “Say something, Illya, anything…”

“I believe you have a saying here… actions speak louder than words.”  Illya’s lips found his and Napoleon grinned, delighted as the tip of Illya’s tongue tickled its way into his mouth.  Illya moved to straddle Napoleon, pressing him back into the sofa, his kisses gaining a sense of urgency as Napoleon pulled him closer until he could feel the pressure of Illya’s shirt buttons into his chest.

Illya’s hands were fumbling with the buttons of Napoleon’s pajamas, desperate in their quest.  Without breaking their kiss, Napoleon struggled out of the top, sighing as Illya’s hands once again made contact with his skin.  Illya’s hands were moving fast, touching as much as they could, eager and anxious, almost desperate, as if afraid they would soon again be denied the pleasure.

Napoleon worked Illya’s shirt out of his pants, not as anxious as he was to divest his partner of his shirt as he was to get Illya’s pants open and free the delight that was tucked away.  He unbuckled the belt, popped the top button and eased down the fly.  Almost instantly, hot flesh connected with his hand and Napoleon broke the kiss, eager now to see Illya’s reaction.

Illya’s eyes were closed and a smile, open, vulnerable, and completely self-involved, decorated his face.  Napoleon ran his finger over the tip, massaging the slit, slick and wet from pre-ejaculate, watching the emotions playing across Illya’s face.  The only one that wasn’t there was caution.

Napoleon brought his fingers to his mouth, eager to taste this most intimate of flavors and Illya’s mouth was on his again, licking, tasting himself as his tongue tangled itself in and around Napoleon’s fingers, sucking them into his own mouth as a child would suck a lollipop. And all the while, Napoleon’s other hand kept moving, fingers caressing sensitive flesh.

Illya pulled away slightly, the look suddenly sliding away to something more wary.  “Are you sure about this, Napoleon?”  Napoleon tightened his grip and Illya rocked slightly.  “You must be certain.”

“Why?”

“Because if we start this, truly start this, I’m not letting go… and I’m not sharing.  Do this and I will demand your exclusivity.”

“Only you could be in the middle of a hand job and use that word,” Napoleon continued to rub him, long sure strokes and he smiled as Illya’s breath quickened in response.  “What about work?  There are times…”

“Work aside.” Illya swallowed, his chest heaving, and he bit his bottom lip. 

“Then I accept your conditions, Mr. Kuryakin.”

“Oh, thank God, such as he is.”  Illya was panting now.  “But not here.  We do this properly.  There have been too many hand jobs lately… for both of us.”

Napoleon wondered where Illya found the strength to suddenly pull away from him and stand.  He held out a hand and Napoleon took it with a smile. Illya yanked him to his feet and Napoleon came to rest against the very solid mass that was his partner. 

Eschewing his crutches, Napoleon let Illya help him to the bedroom.  He paused to skin out of his pajama bottoms, his penis delighted at being free again.  Napoleon eased himself down on the bed, amazed that an equally naked Illya followed him, covering him with his body as he pressed Napoleon down onto the bed.

Skin on skin was the ultimate aphrodisiac in his book Napoleon thought as he ran his hands down Illya’s back.  He was amazed at how soft the skin beneath his fingers actually was.  With the exceptions of the ridges and dips of scar tissues, Illya’s skin was velvet smooth, encasing powerful muscles that flexed in response to his touch. 

“You feel good,” he murmured as Illya’s mouth moved along his jaw.

“You taste better,” Illya countered, his breath tickling Napoleon’s ear.  “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to feel you, touch you like this?”

“Probably as long as I’ve wanted you to.”  Napoleon gasped as Illya mouthed his ear, arching up.

“Shh, let me. You re-injure that leg now and there will be hell to pay.”

“I’m just not used… used to… being… submissive.”  Napoleon was finding it increasingly difficult to deal with speech as Illya continued to map his body with his mouth.

“Oh, submissive is the one thing I’d never attribute to you, _mon ami, mon amour, mon proper.”_

 _“_ Your own _?”_   Napoleon grinned and then groaned as Illya’s clever tongue found nipple.

 _“Oui, mon proper.”_  He nipped and then pulled back a fraction of an inch.  “Or I stop now.”

 _“Vous me tuez, Kuryakin.”_ Napoleon tried unsuccessfully to keep the whine from his voice.  “ _Vous gagnez. Faire avec moi que vous ferez.”_

“Oh, I plan to…”  But again he paused.  “Napoleon, please tell me that you’ve done this before and that you know where we are headed.”

Napoleon reached out and Illya sat back allowing him a greater range of motion.  Napoleon pulled out a partially used tube of petroleum jelly.  “I have, but it’s been a long time.”

Illya grinned and held out his hand for the tube.  He squeezed a generous dollop onto his fingers and began to stroke Napoleon’s penis.

“Illya…”

“This time…” Illya hushed him with a kiss, never stopping his hand.  "Once your leg is well, we will… negotiate.”

Napoleon fumbled for the tube, greasing up his own fingers.  “Then let me… help.”  Without pausing, he reached behind Illya and slid his finger down the crack of Illya’s ass and then in.  Illya moaned in response, pressing back against the finger, his eyes closed and an expression of bliss on his face.  Napoleon took the opportunity to add a second, working them slowly in and out, enjoying the sensation as Illya tightened his muscles around them.

Then suddenly, Illya pulled away and positioned himself over Napoleon’s penis.  Napoleon groaned as blisteringly hot tightness engulfed his penis and he instinctively thrust up into it.  Illya cried out and Napoleon stilled.

“Sorry, it’s been a while.”

“For me as well.  Just remain as still as you can.”  Illya moved again, allowing deeper penetration and Napoleon trembled with the effort to stay still.  Within a few seconds, he was completely sheathed inside Illya.  “Good,” Illya hissed, rocking just slightly.  “Oh, Napoleon…”

“Mmm….”  Napoleon let his fingers dig into Illya’s waist, not moving, just feeling.

_“Vous vous sentez si bon. Je veux mourir comme ceci.”_

“In English, Illya…”  Napoleon rocked up as much as he could, which wasn’t much due to the combination of Illya’s weight and his own injured leg.

Illya instead started moving, slowly at first and then impaling himself down on Napoleon with a force that both excited and yet worried his partner.  Then he abruptly stopped and leaned back, his mouth frozen in a noiseless scream as he ejaculated onto Napoleon’s belly and chest.

Napoleon arched up hard himself and pulled Illya down at the same moment and let his climax find a voice, long and soul felt.

“Don’t move,” Illya ordered, his voice still husky.

“Did I hurt you?”

“I don’t want this to end,” Illya murmured.

“Why do you think it will end?”  Napoleon felt himself slip free and he immediately missed the warmth.  He tugged Illya down onto him, holding him until both their hearts and their lungs had a chance to recover.  He kissed a sweat flecked temple.  “Didn’t I promise always?”

“Promises made at the height of passion sometimes have a way of going by the wayside once cooler minds prevail.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but you’re stuck with me now, Kuryakin.”   He brushed back the blond hair and smiled.  "With me, you get what you pay for.”

“There’s no price too high for you.”

“I think you’ve already proven that a time or two.”  Napoleon’s thumb brushed a ridge of scar tissue.  “I don’t have much to offer you, Illya, just forever.”

“Then I will be not greedy and want for more.”  Illya kissed him and slid to the side, an arm and leg still draped over him.  “Your leg tolerated this?”

“No problems, although I wouldn’t say no to a pain killer right now.” Napoleon reached for the bottle and palmed one of the capsules.  With Illya so close, he wasn’t as worried about the effect as he usually was.  This type of pain killer always messed with his mind a little.

“Excellent…”  Illya sighed, relaxing, watching Napoleon take his medication.

“And you’re okay?”  Napoleon let a hand trailed down Illya’s spine and caressed an ass cheek.

“Okay is but one word that I would use to describe my state of mind at the moment.”

“I wasn’t worried about your state of mind, more like your state of body.  You were riding me pretty hard.”

 “I am… fine.”  But Illya flexed away from his hand.  “Just… tired.”

“Then sleep, _Caro.”_   And with the storm pounding at the windows, the lovers slept.

 

Napoleon woke to darkness and the immediate sense that something was very wrong.  It was puzzlingly dark.  It had been early afternoon when they had fallen asleep, surely it couldn’t already be night? 

He reached out, but he was alone in the double bed and he went to the next level of concern.

“Illya?” he whispered.   There was no response and he knew his partner was gone.  He eased out of bed and reached for his cane, since the crutches were still in the living room, and his weapon. He checked it to make sure it was set for mercy bullets and moved as quietly as he could.

The living room curtains were still open, but the city was dark.  There must be a city wide power outage, rare, but not unheard of.  Then Napoleon saw his apartment door start to edge open, slowly and cautiously.  The emergency lighting from the hallway framed the figure as it eased in.

“Freeze!” Napoleon ordered and the figure moved fast, too fast as he went for his weapon.  Napoleon didn’t wait; he pulled the trigger and watched the man drop in his tracks from the mercy bullet.  That THRUSHie would have some explaining to do when he woke up.

Napoleon hobbled to the entry hall and awkwardly knelt.  Then a sick grinding started in his stomach as he looked down at his unconscious partner.  “Oh, Illya…”

Napoleon sat on the couch and shook his head, a movement both rueful and chastising.

“What the hell were you doing?”

“Five minutes, I stepped out for five minutes so that I could talk to HQ without waking you.”  Illya winced as the doctor finished binding his arm.

“You’ll need to keep that arm immobile for a couple of weeks, Mr. Kuryakin,” the UNCLE doctor said.  It had been apparent to Napoleon upon examining his partner, that something had happened when the Russian went down and he’d placed a call to Medical.

“Wonderful.”  Illya massaged his shoulder and grimaced.

“Thanks for coming over, Doc.”

“No trouble.  Imagine dislocating your shoulder like that…”  The doctor shook his head as he stood to leave.  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you agents are your own worst enemy.”  And with that he left.

“At least we have each other,” Napoleon murmured and Illya shot him a look. 

“The gun…now!”  Illya held out a hand to Napoleon

“I don’t think so.”  Napoleon crossed his arms and looked as defiant as he could in a robe and slippers.

“Why?”  Illya’s brow furrowed.

“This just goes to prove that I can take care of myself.”

“By shooting me?”

“Be glad I didn’t have bullets in it.”

“I am…”   Illya leaned back against the sofa cushions.  “This is just our luck, though.”

“Why’s that?”

Illya reached out and ran a finger down Napoleon’s jaw.  “Your leg, my shoulder, I would venture to say that the playground is closed for the next few weeks.”

“Never underestimate the inventiveness or desperation of a Solo, my friend.”  Napoleon caught the hand and kissed the fingertips. “Necessity is the mother of all inventions and between the two of us, I think we can be plenty creative.”

His answer was a grin, open, completely unguarded, and totally honest.  And Napoleon swore to himself then and there, he was going to make Illya smile like that forever.  
  



End file.
